


Put An End To My Suffering

by gay_writes_with_mac



Series: Platonic Oneshots [5]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Kinda, Sickfic, Tara is a whiny bitch, angst? there is none, canon what canon they're roommates and best friends and have sibling energy, jesus is the king of the mom friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24974716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_writes_with_mac/pseuds/gay_writes_with_mac
Summary: Tara's sick and insists she's got nothing less serious than the Black Death. At least she has a pretty great roommate.
Relationships: Tara Chambler & Jesus
Series: Platonic Oneshots [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793905
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Put An End To My Suffering

“Christ on a fucking  _ crutch _ , T.”

More than a little awkwardly, Jesus leans up against the wall by the door, talking through the tiny crack between the door and the wall. “Tara? You still alive in there?”

“Go away,” Tara croaks weakly in response. “You can’t save me. I’m dying of this plague. Go seek shelter at Glenn’s place before you catch it too. Tell my dad I love him.”

“Or you could tell him yourself, tomorrow, when this  _ twenty-four hour bug  _ is over.” Tara makes a horrible gagging noise that sounds like a lap dog choking on a chicken bone and he winces, tapping on the door to get her attention. “You wanna try the Pepto again?”

“Just dyes everything pink,” Tara groans, breaking into a miserable-sounding fit of hacking coughs that makes his own chest feel a little tight in sympathy. 

“You wanna get out of there? I can set you up on the couch with a bucket and put a movie on or something, maybe try some crackers…”

“Or you could get my gun, put it in my mouth, pull the trigger, and bring an end to my suffering.”

“Very melodramatic, Cleopatra. Come on. You can’t just camp out in the bathroom all night.”

_ “Watch me. _ ”

“Well, I can’t, because you’ve locked yourself in the bathroom. The  _ one  _ bathroom, may I add.”

“Trust me, dude, you’re not going to want to be in here for a while.”

“Ginger ale? Gatorade? Mint? Cough syrup? God, Tara, there’s gotta be  _ something  _ I can do besides stand here and listen to you complain.”

Tara sighs, and behind the door, he hears shuffling. Finally, it opens a crack, and she peeks her head around the corner, her hoodie pulled nearly down to her eyes and making her look like a sad, sick turtle. “...if I can still take you up on the couch…?"

“Got it. One minute, plague rat.” Jesus taps her on the nose just to watch her fever-glazed brown eyes cross and then leaves her for a moment, kicking a lined trashcan over to the side of the couch. As an afterthought, he puts out the Pepto again, as well as a blue Gatorade fresh from their mini fridge and a cup of ginger ale. 

When he comes back, though, Tara’s back over the toilet, crouched down awkwardly with a miserable expression on her face. He just steps in with her, leaning back against the wall behind her, hands in his pockets. “You’re fine, T. Watch, the worst’ll be over by tomorrow.”

“But the worst is still happening right  _ now, _ ” Tara whines, her face scrunched up with discomfort before she bursts into a fit of wet, hacking coughs, one hand braced against the wall to hold herself steady. “God, I just...I feel like  _ shit _ …”

“Yeah, it shows,” Jesus mumbles, dropping down beside her to tentatively rest a hand on her back. “Easy. Just get it over with.”

Tara groans quietly and then lurches forward with another choked gagging noise. She barely brings anything up, wiping her mouth on her hoodie sleeve as she falls back onto her ass.

“Don’t use your  _ sleeve- _ ” Jesus sighs, grabbing quickly for a washcloth and dampening it under the faucet before tossing it to her. “Use that. Not your shirt,  _ ew _ .”

Tara flips him off silently, wiping the taste from her mouth with the damp cloth. “Come on, T. Off the ground, remember?”

He finally manages to shepherd her into the living room and onto the couch, tossing a fleecy blanket over her once he notices her shivering. “You want a movie? Netflix?”

“... _ Raiders of the Lost Ark _ …?”

“You’re so fucking predicatable.” At least if she’s feeling up to watch the flesh melt off the faces of Nazis, she can’t be on her deathbed yet, so he puts it on for her anyway despite the fact that she’s made him watch it with her at least thirty times. “I have to go to class. The Pepto’s out for you, and I got you some stuff to drink, so fucking drink it. I want at least one of those  _ gone  _ when I get back.”

“Yes,  _ Mom _ …” Tara grumbles, curling up in a ball under her blankets as the opening credits start. “You’re gonna catch this, you know that, right…?”

“And I expect nothing less than the utmost sympathy and kindness from you when I do. I’ll be back in a few hours, T. Don’t die.”

She mumbles her thanks so quietly he almost misses it, but he doesn’t.


End file.
